Taking Flight
by harlequincabaret
Summary: In the midst of the rebellion, Moria, a Hunger Games stylist, struggles to prove her allegiance and tries desperately to win back the trust of the one person who ever mattered: Haymitch Abernathy.  Haymitch/OC, Finnick Odair
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello all! First off, this is a tentative title. This is my first THG fanfiction, but I've been writing Harry Potter FF for about a year! I'm sorry if this is a bit of a slow introduction, but I'm hoping this will pick up fast! I've been planning this since before Mockingjay…I'm not 100% sure how accurate or loyal this will be to the canon, but I'll try. I haven't decided whether or not it will bug me if I change some facts. Anyways, this is a fairly short chapter…actually…really short! Please review and let me know what you think! I know this won't be much to go by, but I'd love to hear your opinion, even if it is just the first chapter.**

**Regarding updates: I'm going to try my very hardest to get updates out soon. I usually only like to focus on one story at a time, but I've been itching to write this one…so since I'm juggling two stories, I'm thinking about one update a week, maybe two…but that might be a stretch! I love writing, but I'm a senior in high school. Life is hectic, and any free time is absolutely sacred. So again, I'll try. I promise. But I don't know just how on top of things I'll be able to be. More likely than not, I'll get really passionate about writing every Saturday night, and I'll crank out a couple updates **

Life as we knew it was surely coming to an end. There was no other way to describe the turbulence that had hit Panem, and even the Capitol. My good friend Cinna had been confirmed dead. It rattled me, and made me fear for my own life. Apparently being a Games' stylist wasn't enough to ensure your life…but then again, Cinna hadn't taken caution. He hadn't wanted to, at any rate. I guess I was proud of him. Sad, but immensely proud for the stand he had taken.

I wondered how it was in the districts. It had been a long while since I'd been in my home of 12. Once I'd found my calling in fashion, I jetted to the Capitol. I proved myself. I'd been living there since. People accepted me, because I altered my Seam self to fit their grotesque standards. Sometimes, it really did disgust me—just how malleable I could be. But I'd given up my heritage, my roots, in exchange for safety and my passion and flutes of morphling.

And how I missed my friends! My family was nearly non-existent, but they'd practically disowned me when I told them how I wanted to spend my life. And Haymitch. His name brought a chill to my heart. I missed him. There was no denying it. We'd met in the Seam. I'd sell fine cloths and sewing materials in the market, and sometimes when my inventory boasted rare silks, I'd trade them in the Hob. Somehow, Haymitch always knew where to find me. The year he was sent into the arena was difficult. It nearly drove me to insanity, seeing him fighting for his life and ending others. I scraped whatever money I could find from my measly sales to sponsor him, because surely my mother or father wouldn't freely donate. All I wanted was my friend back. I ached for his presence. All I wanted was to have a street side chat about our best trades, or what treats the baker had made today. When he'd won, I had felt like a great weight had been lifted off of my body, and I was free.

But he was never the same. Though he was still young, the Games had aged him. He took to drink soon, and spirits were his constant companion. I tried to relieve the evil liquids of their burden of friendship, but he was pushing me away, for reasons I never figured out. It was painful.

Maybe that was part of the reason I'd left. My heart had been confused. I knew I wanted to design and sew and create. But I'd grown up in the Seam, and then it seemed to be rejecting me. The family I was raised by paid no mind to me, and the one person I desired was distancing himself from me. So I left. I packed up my materials, and my few personal belongings. I said my goodbyes. But the most heartbreaking was voiced to Haymitch. It became apparent he still cared, even beneath his drunken stupor. He was furious when I said I wanted to go see the Capitol, to see if they'd want me. He yelled, cursed. He spat and threw empty liquor bottles. I remember specifically how wide my eyes were, watching his rage. When he'd finally calmed down some, I'd given him a hug (which he did not return), and left. I never saw him since, but I did know that most people in the district believe me to be dead. They thought I was dead because of my connection to Cinna. But they'd spared me, miraculously. Or maybe it would've been better if they'd just offed me. The only _real_ friend I had left was Finnick Odair, the first tribute I'd ever truly cared about. By the time he came about, I'd been doing the stylist gig for about ten years.

For the first few years I spent in the Capitol, I studied fashion at a school. Then, at the age of 18, I began the real deal. People were hesitant to employ me at first, but after making a name for myself, I was accepted as a Hunger Games stylist. I was bumped from district to district over the years, but Finnick was the first one to stick with me, to truly endear me. And it wasn't just because he was utterly gorgeous. I worked my hardest to help him succeed. I didn't just contribute my designs. Finnick Odair became the first tribute since Haymitch that I sponsored.

But now, with all the uncertainty looming everywhere, I had a firm sense of what had to be done. Now, after all these years living life as a "traitor," as Haymitch might say…I knew just what I had to do. It was commonly believed in the districts, that 13 was still thriving. I believed it too. Years spent living in the Capitol taught me to never believe any illusion that Snow might set in place. I might play along, but I'm still a foreigner. Someone who might have a slight hint of a Capitol accent, but will never be full-bred, superficial and Captiolistic.

I was going to 13.


	2. Chapter 2

** A/N: Update number two **** I got so excited that I was given two reviews that I just had to keep writing. So I want to thank waterpeach4 and TheCatBaby for their reviews. I don't think I've ever gotten reviews the same day I posted a story. It made my day! Anyways, I wanted to clear something up. This is post CF, so there will be Mockingjay spoilers. I'm going to try my very hardest to get facts right concerning Mockingjay. I've only read it once, so some things might still be fuzzy…I'll probably have to crack open the book a couple times to refresh my memory.**

** Please, please review. It really does inspire me to write more and get updates out quicker. Thanks for reading, everyone!**

** By the way—Moria is pronounced like it is in Lord of the Rings. More—ee—uh.**

I threw all my favorite clothes into my suitcase. I couldn't afford to bring everything, not where I was going. Not with the journey.

I had heard it through the grapevine that District 13 would be coming to rescue Capitol refugees. I knew it was my only ticket out of here in a relatively safe manner. I couldn't just run away. I was too watched, too known. My only hope was with the rebels…but I was so familiar, would they even accept me? Would they allow a Games stylist to infiltrate their world?

My valuables lay on top of my clothing. My sketchbook full of luxurious designs that only people of the Capitol would be able to afford. My dream clothing. I had few pieces of jewelry, but my locket was tucked into a small velvet pouch. I stowed it underneath everything else, feeling more secure, as if my life was tied with the safety of the golden chain.

My apartment was still assembled with all of its furniture. It was still dressed in rich fabrics and colors. But it felt empty and bare, like it did when I first moved in. Now, with my suitcase full of belongings, it didn't feel like it was mine anymore. I felt like I was trespassing.

I moved into the bathroom and pulled out my absolute necessities. Shampoo, deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste. Soap. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. My hair was cropped short, with sweeping bangs shielding my left eye from view. My eyes were pale blue grey-Seam eyes. No matter what I changed about myself, those eyes and my olive skin always reminded me of what I had left behind.

I hadn't gotten much altered, really. I took a page out of Cinna's fabulous book and got a thin line of deep plum liner on my upper lash line. I changed nothing other than that, unless you count faking a Capitol accent and indulging in morphling at parties.

I pursed my lips and examined myself. I wasn't frightening, unlike some of the residents here. Some were physically sickening, like the shop owner, Tigris. At least I had that going for me.

The time was ticking away. I needed to leave soon, but the thing that was troubling me was the issue of being inconspicuous. How could I walk down the street with a suitcase and not draw attention to myself?

I'd just have to do it.

I gave my reflection a final glance, and then closed the bathroom door for good.

In the living room, I pulled the curtains tight and left a light on to make it seem as if I were home. Everything looked to be in place, so I said my last goodbyes to my apartment and exited with a sense of finality.

I'd heard of the place where we were supposed to meet up. I felt like I were sneaking out for a tryst—to meet a lover in some secret place.

For a while, no one was looking at me. Most were too concerned with the latest trend in gloves or coats. Some babbled on about their new modifications: tattoos, implants, dyes. Then, a 'friend" approached. Whimsy, a tall and vivacious twenty-something. Her skin was dyed baby pink, and it was inlaid with intricate lilac patterns.

"Moria! Where are you going with that suitcase? Not skipping town, are you?" Her accent was almost painful to my ears. By now I'd gotten used to it, tried to mimic it, even. But no one's accent was worse than Whimsy's.

"No, Whimsy. I'd never do that." I wasn't a bad liar. "This is just full of some designs. They aren't finished yet, and most are scattered in pieces. I'm just moving them to another shop for safe keeping. I'm working on something else right now, a big project. I don't want them to intermingle and get mixed up!"

"No, we wouldn't want that!" Whimsy agreed horrorstruck. It was petty to worry over mixed collections, but so were the concerns of the residents of the Capitol.

"I'll be seeing you." I said in a faux-cheery voice.

I hurried away in determination. I shouldn't have been too far from the meeting place, and I was becoming extremely anxious. My fate now rested with the rebels, and I wasn't even sure if it was a true cause or if it was Capitol gossip.

Then I felt a tug on my arm, and I was pulled sideways into an alley. It was shaded from the sun, and it brought a shiver to my spine.

"Moria?" A voice rasped accusingly. Dread spread through me.

"Yes…"

"It's me, Hera." I felt instant relief when I caught sight of her face in a sliver of light. Though her face was marred by bold tattoos and her body was pierced in all the wrong places, it brought me comfort. She was always kind to me, and was even a little out of place here herself.

"Hera," I breathed, and I tried on a smile. "Why are you here?"

"Escape. I need an escape. I've had a major epiphany." Her bright green eyes w ere sparkling.

"An epiphany?"

She gestured to her mutilated body and nodded. "This. All this excess!" She shook her head with a scowl. "Something is wrong. Over the past few years I've questioned the Capitol's methods…but I never did anything. All the talk of a rebellion—it's made me realize we really do need change, in some form. And I don't want to be on the wrong side when everything blows up."

"I see."

"And you, Moria? I mean, you willingly came to the Capitol. Now you want to leave?"

I flinched. Now that I had resolved to leave, remembering my shallow sighted decision to move here made me sick. "I was never one hundred percent happy with that decision. I figure if I go with the rebels, there might be some chance of my life going back to normal…a chance I could return to twelve."

I saw a look of grief flash across Hera's face. She seemed to be mentally debating something.

"Moria…have you not been listening to the news? Have you heard the citizens chatting lately?"

"All I've been hearing is what patterns are in."

Hera nodded grimly. "Of course. Everyone has been trying to keep it quiet."

"Hera—what is it? You're scaring me."

"They blasted twelve to hell, Moria."

I felt like I'd been hit square in the chest. So I had no home to go to? Once this was all over, twelve wouldn't be there to say 'welcome home, it's been a while'?

"No…"

"Most died. But I heard some escaped to thirteen. I hope it's true. Because otherwise, these rebels have no chance of surviving."

"I guess we'll just have to stay positive, right?"

"Right." She nodded in agreement. "I'm so glad I know someone who is trying to get away…I was afraid I'd have no one."

"Yeah." I answered, but I didn't really hear her. I was still pondering the fact that the place I used to call home was decimated.

"Oh, look! That must be the guy who has come to escort us to the hovercraft." Hera pointed excitedly. "Let's go, Moria."

Every movement I made felt stiff and forced. But I followed her, with my eyes trained on the ground. My hand gripped my suitcase as if it were my last thread connecting me to life. As we approached the group of rebels, I shuddered. All we knew was falling around our feet….

"Moria Irisia?" A tall and formidable rebel soldier questioned.

"That's me." I responded, figuring he recognized me from one of the past Games. I saw Hera's terrified face, and before I could comprehend what was happening, a club descended on my skull. The last thing I remembered was the scrape of pavement on my face and the clink of handcuffs, and then I blacked out.


	3. Chapter 3

** A/N: I realize that these updates are not the longest…I always find it hard to write long, drawn out chapters because I want to keep it flowing and keep it moving forward. Also, updates probably will not come as often as they have this past weekend…since it was a 3-day weekend, I had more time…but it's going to be crazy from now until at least December with college crap.**

** Thanks to all the readers out there **** I'll hopefully keep the enthusiasm up for this story like I did for my first story, The Coexistence of Duty and Love (Harry Potter fic, if anyone is interested). Please review!**

My head ached and throbbed. It was like nothing I'd ever felt before. When my eyes came into focus, I took into account the handcuffs that trapped my wrists, and the scattered, huddled bodies in the room. All were handcuffed, just like me. I realized we were all Capitol; if I was even to be considered that. Upon closer examination, I recognized other stylists, some that I had even worked with in the past. And the others were employed in some sector of the Capitol.

The grip that the metal constraints had on me made me feel claustrophobic, and the lack of space in the room did not help. I gathered that we were on the hovercraft that was going to 13. Why we were being treated like felons was beyond my knowledge. All I knew was that I felt betrayed, and unsettled.

It felt like such a long trip to the lost district of 13. Maybe it was my head trauma, but it felt impossibly lengthy. With nothing to do, and restraints imposed on me, time passed like the flowing of molasses. I entertained myself by trying to guess who each stylist was, and I quizzed myself on which tributes they had dressed up, recreated—transformed. I wondered if they knew I was there with them, and if they could even recall who I was.

After what felt like ages, the same man who had knocked me unconscious came to claim us. I struggled to my feet, but he pushed me back down. I stumbled into the wall, and grunted in aggravation. This was certainly not what I had expected when I decided to become a Capitol refugee.

"Not yet, girly." He bristled. Another soldier entered the cabin, and produced a length of thick, strong wire from his belt. "Good, good. Thanks." The abusive rebel said appreciatively, and immediately began tying us all together. One by one, each of the captives were woken harshly, and then bound together. "Bring the blindfolds?" He asked the other, and the second soldier handed him a mass of black fabric. Once he'd untangled all of the blindfolds, they both took part in taking away our sight. It made me feel helpless and small.

"Think that's about it." The second one said firmly, and paced in front of us. At least, I think it was him who was pacing. The footfalls were heavy, and he was definitely the heavier set of the pair. "Let's take them in."

I could feel the hairs standing up on my arms as they began to lead the chain of us out of the hovercraft. I wondered if Hera were watching, if she wondered if I had done something criminal to provoke this. Of course, I had not…at least to my knowledge.

It was hard not to feel the other captives' emotions when we were bound so close together. I felt a small sense of camaraderie, even if it was not under the best circumstances.

I heard a door open, and suddenly the world sloped downward. We were headed underground. Down, down, down we went. There must have been hundreds upon hundreds of stairs. My feet were beginning to tire, but still we followed the rebel soldiers deeper into the earth.

'So this must be where thirteen has been hiding…' I thought as I descended. How clever.

"This room." Someone grumbled, and in we went. I noted the change in temperature.

Then I heard the moans. Even before the blind folds were taken off, I knew something was dreadfully wrong. The black cloth was ripped from around my head, and my eyes struggled to readjust to the light. But then I saw them. My stylist friends.

"Octavia?" She returned my gaze and nodded feebly. She looked thinner, but not in a flattering, healthy way. "Flavius." He's always been my favorite of the three Games' stylists. His hair was still the same vibrant orange, but he looked tired and worn. "Venia." Out of the trio, she appeared the strongest. But even she was weakened.

"Quiet!" The man who led us barked. I clamped my mouth tight, and resigned to silence.

"They said you wanted me, sir?" Said a very young rebel.

"Chain these few up. The others are to be put in the next room over."

"Yes, sir."

The boy gripped me by the wrists after untying me from the other two destined for this room, and lifted me up. He didn't have to drag me, because I complied. I had had a feeling there was no way out of this…so why struggle? Why make matters worse?

He shackled me to the wall, right next to Venia. It was an awkward position, at best. I could already imagine the body cramps and pains it would cause me.

When he left, after finishing with the other two, silence overtook the crowded chamber. It was a suffocating silence, but at the same time I dreaded having it filled with words. What good would they be? No words could have been comforting.

Instead, I tried to think of who could be there already. Which of my friends could save me.

I had no idea who had survived the bombing of 12. So any residents of the district were out of the question. What about the survivors of the 75th Hunger Games? Surely some had outlasted it all…it had been widely speculated that some of the tributes had lived through it. Beetee, for one. Finnick, apparently. And of course, Katniss Everdeen.

So it would all come down to Finnick Odair? And though he was my friend, how deeply did that bond run?

Then I had thought of another option, another hope I had. It wasn't a very realistic or probable hope, but it had been something. Haymitch. Because surely Haymitch was still alive, if he'd been with Plutarch.

I sighed. No, it was not much to go by. Our last encounter had been one of much hostility; it was futile to wish for his support.

"We were so hungry." Octavia mumbled. It was barely audible, but I caught it.

"They did this to you over food?" I asked in horror.

"You have no idea, Moria." She choked. "It's horrible. There are so many rules to follow. And we get schedules every day. We can't stray from them."

"You can't even take the remainder of your meal to your quarters." Flavius added.

"It's that strict?"

"Yes." He nodded in affirmation. My heart sank. Even if I had had a chance of getting out of there, I'd most likely be thrown back in for some sad mistake.

"Who all have you seen?" I asked. No one answered. "Is Haymitch here?" Again, silence. So I just rested my head against the wall, and tried to relax. It was impossible, though. The mixture of smells was stomach churning. Disease, waste. I hoped I wouldn't have to stay there long. My heart went out to the three stylists who'd worked on Katniss Everdeen, District 12. How long had they had to stay here, chained to a wall? How long did they have to endure the cacophony of odors and aches?

I surrendered to sleep after a long while of thinking. It wasn't a comfortable sleep, by any means. When I had woken up the next morning, I instantly regretted the position I'd fallen asleep in. But what other choice did I have?

It went on like that for days. I tried desperately to shift positions to find the most comfortable spot. I tried to make any meal I was given count and last, but it did nothing for my hollow belly. My three friends were very quiet, unsettlingly so. Day after day, all we saw were rebel soldiers, and the occasional drop of water or slice of bread.

On my sixth day as a prisoner, the door opened abruptly and obnoxiously. It roused Octavia from sleep, the first she'd gotten in a while. But it wasn't a rebel, or a soldier…or a medic, or a cook.

It was my salvation.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Wow…it's been a couple weeks! I'm sorry. It's been so crazy with school stuff. I had to take the ACT, fill out applications, and keep my marks up. Luckily, I've had a bit of time to write in between…even if this chapter is pretty short. **

** I think what's holding me back from pursuing this at full speed (besides school, of course) is not having a "map" drawn out. To keep on top of things, I like to form an outline. I call it a map, but basically it's just an organic period of events. It's usually whatever comes to mind at the moment, and then I mold it. Also, I've only read Mockingjay once, and I don't want to screw it up!**

** Anyways, rambling aside, I hope you enjoy this (short) chapter. Please review!**

I breathed a sigh of relief. Finnick.

His eyes were wide, as if he didn't believe it was me.

"Moria?"

"It's me Finnick," I choked. My throat was raw and coarse, thirsty.

"What've they done to you? I heard someone mention you, and then your location…I had to come and see. I cannot believe this." He took a few steps towards me, and examined the bleeding wounds around my wrists.

"I've been here almost a week. I still don't know why they locked me up…These three," I nodded my head weakly in Katniss' stylists' direction, "took an extra piece of bread. That's why they're here. Or something like that." I already felt out of breath; it took so little to drain me of all energy.

"I'm getting you out of here." Then I noticed the medical bracelet around his wrist, and the frayed piece of rope that he held. It was morphing from straight to knotted with a few moves of his fingers.

"That'd be great, Finny." I smiled faintly. "Just don't beat yourself up over it. You're not looking your best either."

He nodded, a silent agreement.

"I've missed you."

"I missed you, too, Moria. It's been a while."

"Sure has."

"I better get going." He shifted uncomfortably, trying to avoid looking at the shackles and signs of abuse. "People might start wondering where I am."

"Of course."

"I'll do something about this, I promise."

I watched as he left the cell and felt myself slump to the ground. I'd given too much energy to the brief conversation.

"Is Haymitch here?" I asked again, and this time Flavius grunted, and then cleared his throat. "Yes."

My heart leapt, but with which emotion, I didn't know. Either he'd be happy to see me after all this time, or he'd turn his back on me. He'd call me a traitor.

I slowly fell into an uneasy sleep.

"Moria?"

The voice was distant; it echoed in my ears.

"Moria…?"

My eyes fluttered open. A blonde woman in a nurse's uniform was standing above me, concern written on her face.

"Who are you?" I asked hoarsely. I blinked a few times to gain my full sight.

"I'm nurse Everdeen. Finnick told me to come see you."

"I don't know why I'm being held prisoner…"

"Your wrists look badly infected. And you appear dehydrated." I could attest to that. I'd only had a few drops of water in the past two days.

She flashed a little light into my eyes and I shied away from the bright intrusion.

"You need to come to the hospital. We can patch you up."

"That'd be great…if only we had a key. And besides, if they wanted me to be locked up, why should they let me go and be taken care of?"

"I can arrange something. I believe Finnick is trying to work things out. Although, I don't know how promising that should be. He's a mental patient."

I felt my heart drop to my knees. Mental patient?

"Here. I'll rub this on your wrists." Nurse Everdeen rubbed a soothing balm onto my abused wrists. I immediately felt relief.

"Thank you."

"No problem, sweetie. I remember you. You used to sell me thread every once in a while. Back in the Seam."

I looked up a t her and saw a woman aged. She appeared older than me, but I now knew better. She was only a few years elder than I. I recognized her.

"I know you. You can't be bad. You may be Capitol now…or you may live there now. But you're twelve until you die."


End file.
